There was that time when Jesus ate dinner at Lazarus’ home. What if they’d shared bread baked from earlier in the morning, grilled lamb, figs just plucked from the tree and pomegranates with red, sweet juice dribbling down chins? Can you smell the feast?

Were any doors and windows open? Did a breeze deliver the aroma of a nearby orchard? Were flowers blooming by the entry? Had Lazarus’ neighbor spent the day pressing new oil from harvested olives? Do you feast in the smells?

Jesus’ disciples crowded into the room. Judas fingered the bag of coins. Peter ached for his family. Thomas drank too much. Matthew told a long story about a tax dodger from Galilee, but forgot the punch line. All were road weary, sweat-stained and couldn’t recall their last bath.

Lazarus’ sister entered. Mary.

Readers of John’s Gospel know what happens next. Her actions led to Judas’ complaints . . . the expensive nard she possessed could’ve been sold, the money “given to the poor.” Her actions caused Jesus to comment about those same poor with a perplexing, melancholy response: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

John’s Gospel simply declared, “The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”

Can you smell what Mary did? What was that scent like in your imagination?

Did your grandmother, who loved you so much, always wear a particular brand of perfume? What does the pillow of your beloved smell like, with that lingering hint of familiar shampoo? Is the scent that turns your head and beckons a memory tinged with citrus or lilacs or sage?

On the printed page or digital screen, it’s hard to tease the nose. And yet maybe I can tickle, tantalize or traumatize your sense of smell with a few well-chosen words. What of that mysterious woman, spotted once on a street long ago, wearing Chanel #5? What about your favorite bakery and its scrumptious one-of-a-kind croissants and perfectly brewed coffee? Then there’s the awful trudge down the convalescent hospital’s hallway, with too much industrial cleanser and too many incontinent patients, as you visited your dying father?

You remember, don’t you?

In her Natural History of the Senses, Diane Ackerman wrote,

Smells spur memories, but they also rouse our dozy senses, pamper and indulge us, help us define our self-image, stir the cauldron of our seductiveness, warn us of danger, lead us into temptation, fan our religious fervor, accompany us to heaven, wed us to fashion, steep us in luxury. Yet, over time, smell has become the least necessary of our senses, “the fallen angel,” as Helen Keller dramatically calls it.

Once, as a hospice chaplain, I grasped the hand of a woman dying from cancer while a nurse tended to the patient’s tumor. The cruel, tumor-as-beast had erupted from the body, out of control and wrecking flesh. The nurse had warned me. The wound was gruesome, all rotted flesh, the stench of death on death’s worst day. I held on to her hand. I prayed. I hugged the patient, repelled by the odor and yet desiring to support her. Let skin be cleansed and soul be blessed . . . as much as was humanly possible.

Once I schemed with a church’s worship team to add fragrance to communion. Hours before the morning service began, several folks lugged in their electronic bread makers, tucked them into the room’s corners and flipped the “on” switches. By the time worshippers arrived, the sanctuary had filled with a robust, yeasty scent. The nose knows! As we sang Let us break bread together, our bodies were on high alert. A ritual had become sensual.

We confront, on the path of Lent, life and death. We experience unequal portions of grace and lust. We witness delight and can never avoid the decay. We touch warm mercy and cruelty that burns. We taste sweet truth and bitter deceit. Along the route that batters and bolsters our faith, may we embrace the whole and holy world.

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4 Comments

Your writing is wonderfully imbued with spirit and humor! I especially love how you and your worship team plugged in bread-makers for Communion. I look forward to reading more of your posts, so rich with sensory imagery.

Larry – Thanks for a lovely evocative sermon. You inspired the direction for my sermon. I will include attribution. I will also likely borrow the idea of using breadmakers to “cense” the church soon. Blessings on you as you preach tomorrow.